


Worse Ways To Go

by PastelWonder



Series: Return To Me [3]
Category: Blitz (2011), Spy (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:10:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelWonder/pseuds/PastelWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the ground rushes up to meet him, Tom Brant thinks there are worse ways to go than falling in love with Susan Cooper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse Ways To Go

**Author's Note:**

> This little slice is set during Return To Me, about a month after Tom brings her home with him from the hospital. Sort of an expansion on Tom's feelings for Susan in the beginning.

He’s in love with her.

 

He feels it in his chest and in his gut when he looks at her, when he thinks about her. It’s a sick throbbing ache that has absolutely nothing to do with his cock, although he does want to fuck her all the time, thinks about fucking her all the time.

 

Now that’s a feeling he’s familiar with - the urge to fuck. It’s a tightening in his chest and a dull pulse in his low belly and the heady drum of adrenaline beating through him, louder and louder, until he comes. A lot like the urge to fight, really.

 

This is different.

 

It’s something hot and barbed that unfurls in his chest, rankling him as it uncoils, leaving him burning raw and struggling to breathe. A nauseating dip in his stomach, like the sensation of being pitched overboard. Like the sensation of falling, and knowing he’s falling so far and so fast he’ll be crushed when he hits the pavement.

 

Every time he looks at her, touches her, hears her voice, he feels it.

 

He’s in love with her.

 

He turns his key, bolt grinding against the strike as he unlocks the door to his flat. She’s listening for him, because a few seconds later, he hears the scratch of the chain lock sliding in its latch, sees the knob turn and the door open.

 

She stands in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other resting lightly on the wall beside her, wearing a tee shirt and dark exercise pants. Her hair’s in a low ponytail, pulled over her good shoulder; the ends of it brush her tits as she tips her chin to look up at him with those big green eyes.

 

“Hi Tom,” she says softly. She gives him a small smile, dimples peeking out at him under the apples of her cheeks. “Welcome home.”

 

Jesus, he is so completely and utterly fucked.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

This is something he looks forward to: sitting and eating together at the dinner table.

 

It’s been years since he’s done that with someone; he honestly can’t say when the last time was. Probably with his mother, when he was a lad. But even then it was few and far between - Christmases, birthdays, shit like that.

 

Most nights, before she came along, he ate at a pub or a sports bar near the station, or out of the vending machines in the canteen after-hours. If he brought home take-out, he ate it sitting on the sofa watching a match or over the rubbish bin standing up in the kitchen.

 

Come to think of it, he can’t remember ever using the dining room table in this flat, other than for oiling his hurley, maybe.

 

But now...

 

He leans back in his chair, plants his feet wide enough apart for his left knee to knock lightly against her right one. Tonight is one of those rare occasions when he’s home before she’s eaten, so she sits in the seat adjacent to his and has dinner with him. Her arm’s only been out of the sling a week, and for the most part, she keeps it cradled to her chest as she eats right-handed.

 

“ ‘ow’s the shoulder?” he asks, because he wants to know and he wants her to talk to him. God, that’s a different feeling: wanting a woman to talk.

 

“Mmm, hmm.” She hides her mouth behind her hand, chewing. The corners of her eyes crinkle at him in a smile. She swallows. “Much better, today. Thank you for asking.”

 

 _Always so proper and polite, this one._ Like she wasn’t on her knees this morning, sucking him off before work.

 

He smirks. “S’good.”

 

He watches her cut her pork chop with her right hand, gingerly holding it steady with her fork in her left. Propping his elbows on the table, he cracks his knuckles, ignoring the face she makes as he asks, “You go out today?”

 

She keeps her eyes on her plate as she says, “Yes.”

 

It’s pleasant when she says it, but he’s had her long enough to know that edge in her tone means all that’s she’ll say about it.

 

He saws off another chunk of pork chop, scooping some of the rice and gravy over it with the serrated edge of his steak knife. It’s some new dish she’s made, spicy and a bit sweet.

 

“What’s this?” he asks around a mouthful, tapping his plate with the tip of his knife.

 

She looks up at him. The light from the overhead lamp reflects yellow-gold in her eyes.

 

_God, she’s so fuckin’ pretty._

 

“Caribbean pork chops. I used some jerk seasoning, bell peppers, crushed pineapple…”

 

He takes a swig of his beer, sees her watch him out of the corner of his eye. He leans back in his chair, sniffs casually. “S’good.”

 

She flashes him a smile, dimples popping out under the apples of her cheeks. “You like it?”

 

“Yeah,” he nods, sucking his teeth and giving her a half-smile.

 

She makes that sweet little sound that’s between a hum and a laugh. “Thanks. I just kinda-” she shrugs her good shoulder, “made it up. I was feeling Jamaican.”

 

He grins.

 

 _Feeling Jamaican_ \- she’s always saying silly shit like that. _I was feeling Breakfast at Tiffany’s today. Good morning, starshine. Color me confused._

 

“Ah, made it up, did yah?” He takes another swig of beer, watching her pleased glow over his bottle. Dropping his pitch, he catches her eye and smirks, “Clever li’le fox, you are.”

 

She blushes at that, her sidelong glance at him almost shy, and he thinks this may be his favorite look of hers. Besides the one when he’s pounding into her, her eyes screwed shut and her mouth open as she comes for him.

 

“Ha! Hmm, well, you - jah make’a me crazy!” she chirps, tittering a little at her own joke.

 

He chuckles. She’s so fucking strange. “Oh yeah? Jou make’a me fuckin’ randy.”

 

She guffaws, surprised by that, covering her mouth with her napkin as her head falls back in a snort-laugh. Her breasts and belly jiggle.

 

Hold on - this is his favorite look.

 

“You’re such a nut,” she tells him, shaking her head and smiling like a loon.

 

 _Fine by me, sweet’eart_.

 

After they eat, he watches highlights of the match with the volume turned low while she washes up, letting her soft humming and the clinking and splashing of the dishes in the sink lull him into forgetting about his cases.

 

He’s dozing contentedly when he hears the faint _zap_ of the television turning off, living room darkening in the absence of its glow.

 

“Hey,” she calls softly from his bedroom doorway.

 

_Ah, the witchin’ hour, is it?_

 

He tips his chin down to look at her and gives her a slow, lazy smile. “What you want, then?”

 

Folding her hands behind her, she leans her good shoulder against the doorjamb.

 

“You,” she says quietly.

 

When she looks at him like that, he almost believes it.

 

_S’not you she wants, mate._

 

He scrubs a hand over his face and pushes off the couch, grunting at the stiffness in his back.

 

Her eyes changes as his bulk blocks out the light behind him; they look larger and greener in the dimness as she watches him.

 

_Beautiful._

 

He braces his hands on the doorframe, bracketing her with his arms, one leg bent at the knee as he leans down.

 

“What you want, Susan?”

 

His stomach tightens as her fingertips graze the skin under the hem of his tee shirt, unbuckling his belt. Eyes on his mouth, she pops the button on his jeans, slides the zipper down. He’s already hardening as she palms him through his briefs.

 

“I want you,” she whispers, shifting onto the balls of her feet and pressing her lips to his jawline.

 

He threads his fingers through her hair, swallowing the sweet pleading sound she makes as he kisses her deeply.

 

She’s so incredibly soft.

 

He takes her to bed, careful of her shoulder as he lays her down, and rides to her till she’s spent, because that’s what she wants and that’s what he wants.

 

And if she calls him _Rick_ as he moves over her, inside her, because that’s what she wants, _who_ she wants?

 

Well, then. That’s what he wants, too.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

He lifts a curl off her shoulder, smirking as he watches her sleeping face. Slivers of light from a streetlamp filter in between the slats of his bedroom blinds, slanting across her in long grey bands, and she looks so young and sweet.

 

She sighs, a breathy little huff with lips parted, and it makes him sick with ache.

 

He loves her.

 

Nights like this, he likes to lie beside her and look at her as he falls asleep. Pretending she’s peaceful. Pretending she loves him. Pretending she knows who he is.

 

She’s not afraid of him, at least. That she’s made abundantly clear.

 

Why should she be? She doesn’t have the foggiest idea who he is, what he’s like.

 

She doesn’t ask him questions. She doesn’t say much to him at all, really, when she’s not feeding him or fucking him. That was fine by him the first month or so, but now he’s fucked up and fallen for her, and it bothers him that he doesn’t know what she’s thinking. If she’s thinking about staying. If she’s thinking about leaving.

 

_Why the fuck would she stay, yah stupid arse?_

 

Even he’ll admit - though only to himself - that he’s completely out of his depth. Sure, he’s had girls. Lots of girls. Every kind. And there might have been one or two he gave a toss about, when he was a younger lad.

 

He could figure them out, at least. What made them tick, what turned them on, what turned them off. He could be a real charmer, if a girl got him cooking enough. And he could be a real blackmailer, if it came to that.

 

But Susan? He didn’t have the first fucking clue when it came to her.

 

Oh, yeah, he could turn her on, alright. Get her hot and wet for him, begging him for his cock, a sweet screaming babbling mess under him as he pounded into her for all he’s worth. Every night, just about.

 

But what he couldn’t do was control her. He’d tried, _believe him_ , he’d tried. Ordering her, commanding her, outright intimidating her. And what had she done?

 

She’d laughed at him, like he was some silly little rat terrier nipping at her heels.

 

 _Oh sweetie_ , she’d say, and cluck her tongue. _Get real._

 

Nobody laughs at Tom Brant. That’s like asking for your ticket punched, for a rope around your neck and a shove off the top of Big fucking Ben.

 

Nobody laughs at him - nobody _dares_ \- except her.

 

That is to say, when she isn’t out-and-out ignoring him. Rolling her eyes at him like, _Give me a break, buddy_ and brushing past him with a patronizing _pat-pat_ on the chest. _There boy, be a good doggie and run along. Go on, Tom, shoo shoo._

 

She’d pulled that shit the second week she was here. He was trying to tell her the rules, to make her listen to him, make her understand he wasn’t fucking joking - she could not walk the streets of South London at night by herself, with her arm in a sling no-less. She was to sit her arse down on that sofa and wait for him to come home, and _he_ would take her out.

 

What had that little chit done? She’d mocked him, that’s what. Made her hand into a little puppet with a wide flapping mouth and parroted him as she yawned. _Are you done, Tom?_

 

He’d been so infuriated he’d backed her into a corner in the kitchen, snarling that he’d teach her some fucking respect.

 

So she punched him. Rocked up and clocked him one, right in the fucking mouth.

 

And it had _hurt_.

 

He’d leaned over the sink, spitting out blood and touching the back of his hand to his split lip, and she’d beamed him in the temple with a bag of frozen peas, chirping sweet-as-you-please, _You’ll wanna put something cold on that, sweetie_ . Took his car keys and wiggled her fingers _toodaloo_ and didn’t come home until two in the morning.

 

She was a complete nutter. She had to be.

 

Then, he guessed, so was he. Because that shit had got him so hard he thought he’d burst before she got back. He’d been gentle as a lamb to her, all contrite, and she’d taken him to bed and rode him til he came so hard he saw static against the backs of his eyelids.

 

_Glorious._

 

He winds her hair around his finger, careful not to tug. She doesn’t sleep much, between the episodes and the nightmares, and after a full day's work and four-finger glass of Irish, he’d had just enough left in him to come home and wear her out before he collapsed. If she wakes up now, it’ll be another hour at least of banging her until she’s exhausted and trembling and can’t keep her eyes open.

 

Not that he’s complaining. Still, a man needs his sleep, even if it’s just a few hours.

 

As his eyes drift closed, he listens to her soft snores and murmurs, “Who are you, Susan Cooper?”

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

He’s dreaming about Susan when his alarm goes off. It’s a pleasant dream. Something about walking down the street with her tucked in at his side. It’s night, and winter, he guesses, because both of her hands circle his elbow to tuck into his jacket pocket. And her nose is bright red from the cold. Or has she been crying?

 

She’s not in the bed with him, he realizes, blindly feeling for her after he shuts off his alarm.

 

He sighs, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 

_Jaysus, ‘ere we go._

 

It may have only been six weeks, but he knows by now what it means when she’s already up.

 

He drags the covers off, takes his time shuffling into the bathroom, hacking and spitting into the sink and brushing his teeth.

 

He pulls on a pair of briefs and his jeans before he sidles into the living room. Sure enough, she’s standing in the kitchen, wearing a tee shirt and her knickers. She’s holding a piece of bread in one hand and staring blankly through the pass-through at the living room window.

 

The blinds are closed.

 

He finds his jacket where he tossed it last night over the back of the sofa and digs his Weights and his zippo out of the pocket. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and tucks a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Lights it, takes a deep drag, savoring the stinging heat in his throat and in his lungs.

 

He exhales smoke through his nose as he watches her closely. “Susan?”

 

Nothing.

 

He stalks around the kitchen counter, slowly. If he startles her when she’s like this, there’s a good chance she’ll start screaming, and it’s too early for all that bloody racket.

 

He takes another drag off his cigarette, blows the smoke out the side of his mouth, away from her. “Susan?”

 

She inhales sharply and blinks. Her hand clenches around the slice of bread, crushing it.

 

“Tom?”

 

She knows who he is this time, at least. Maybe it’s not as bad as all that. He steps into her line of sight, just a foot or two away.

 

“Yeah, s’very good. Tom.” He searches her face, looking to see if she’s heard him. Sometimes she can’t, when it gets really bad. She can’t hear a fucking word he says.

 

Hysterical deafness. A real treat.

 

“Can yah tell me your name, sweet’eart?”

 

She swallows, noticing the bread in her hand with a jerk. She gives him a confused look. “I was making toast.”

 

She looks around the kitchen. “Where’s the toaster?”

 

He makes a soft clicking sound, like he’s calling a horse, to draw her attention back to him. When her eyes are on him, he asks, “What’s your name, luv?”

 

“Susan,” she says softly, but definitively.

 

He nods, watching her as his hand reaches back behind him to flick ash into the sink. “S’right. Susan.”

 

She’s trembling, he realizes. Her feet are bare on the tile, and it’s cool in his flat, so that might be why. He doubts it, though. “Susan, what’s today?”

 

She cocks her head, brow creasing. Her lips move slightly, but no sound comes out.

 

He takes a step closer. She flinches, clenching the slice of bread tighter.

 

“Shh shh, easy now.” He takes one last drag, turns and stubs the cigarette out on the metal lip of the sink. He tucks it behind the faucet handles for later.

 

 _Let’s try something easier_.

 

He holds up his hands, palms-out and close to his sides, _Not gonna ‘urt yah_. “What month is it, Susan?”

 

She blinks, staring somewhere over his shoulder.

 

He ducks his head, catches her eyes with his. “Susan? Can you tell me what month it is?”

 

She looks down and to the right, concentrating. “January?”

 

He curls his lips into his teeth, smacks them. “Nope.”

 

“It’s… it’s…” She searches his face, trembling getting worse.

 

He takes another step closer, so close she has to tilt her head a little back to look at him.

 

“Rick?” Mouth wobbling, she licks her lips. “Rick?”

 

There’s a deep wrench in his gut, like the floor’s dropped out from under him. He closes his eyes and swallows, then, “I’m right ‘ere, darlin’.”

 

She touches his chest, hand over his heart, and he feels a tight pinch, like someone’s clamped his sternum in a vice.

 

She takes a shaky breath, brow furrowing in confusion. “I can’t-”

 

“Shh. Hush now.” He reaches up a hand, cups her face, presses his palm into her cheek. Like she did the first day she was awake, at the hospital. “I’m right ‘ere.”

 

Her eyelids flutter closed. He feels her tears slip between their skin. He kisses her.

 

She’s shaking violently now, fingers stuttering over his neck and the sides of his face. Suddenly, she convulses, shoving past him at the same time he lurches out of the way. She hunches over the sink and vomits.

 

_Knows ‘ow to make a bloke feel wanted, this one._

 

She coughs, a deep barking cough, as she spits into the sink.

 

“That’s it.” He lays his large hand on her back, ignoring the way she tenses. “Get it all out. Thatta girl.”

 

She starts to scream.

 

“‘old on, ‘old on.” He stretches out a hand to rip a few paper towels off the rack as he takes her by the arm and turns her. He wipes at the spit and bile around her mouth, telling her, “That’s enough, Susan. Take a deep breath.”

 

He does an exaggerated demonstration of an inhale. “In.”

 

She takes a deep gulp of air; it pumps right back out in a dry sob.

 

Shaking her gently, he chides, “Gotta ‘old it, remember? Come on, girl. Again.”

 

Two more tries and she’s breathing again, a deep, labored breathing punctuated with coughs. But she’s not hyperventilating, or shrieking, so he’ll take it.

 

She grasps at him, nails scratching as she fumbles for something to hold onto. He sucks his tongue and winces, wishing he’d put on a Goddamn shirt.

 

“Rick? Rick, I need… I need… Please-”

 

“Shh, it’s comin’.” He takes her by the upper arms and steers her out of the kitchen towards the bathroom. “Come on, then.”

 

“Wait! I need you-”

 

“I know what you’re askin’ for,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, trying not to squeeze too hard as she back-pedals and flails against him. Fighting to catch the tail-end of his patience, he promises, “We’re gonna ‘ave a brush first, alright? And then you’ll get whatcha need. ‘ow does that sound to yah?”

 

“Please don’t go. I don’t want you to go-”

 

“Oh, I ain’t leavin’ yah," he assures her darkly. "Wild ‘orses, sweet’eart. Wild ‘orses.”

 

He manhandles her into the bathroom and watches her brush her teeth with his arms crossed, hip propped against the sink. She comes down a little more as she does, giving him sidelong glances from under her lashes, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she takes her eyes off him too long. He hands her a towel after she swishes and spits; she takes it, numbly patting herself dry as she watches the last of the water swirl down the drain.

 

He tugs her into the bedroom by the wrist, pushing her lightly onto the bed. She watches him take off his jeans and his briefs, blinking slowly.

 

“Well?”

 

She looks confused.

 

“Jesus bloody Christ,” he mutters under his breath, catching her under her knees and hefting her legs up onto the bed.

 

She touches his chest again. “Rick.”

 

“S’right, I’m Rick. Lift up.” He hooks his fingers into the crotch of her knickers and tugs. They slide off her ankles with a soft _snap_.

 

He frowns. She’s not nearly wet enough for him, and he can’t work her up when she’s like this. He stands up, going around the bed for the lube in his nightstand.

 

“Wait! Don’t go-”

 

“Hush now,” he grunts, making a _lie-down_ motion with his hand. “Not goin’ anywhere, yah silly cow.”

 

Her hands scramble against his arms and shoulders as he climbs back onto the bed, looking for something to cling to as she drags him closer.

 

His mobile rings in the living room. “Goddamnit - Susan, lie still for me - _lie still_ , I said.”

 

“Rick,” she whimpers pitifully. The sound rips his fucking heart out.

 

“I’m tryin’, sweet’eart.” He squeezes a generous glob onto his fingers, rubs them together a bit in a vain attempt to warm up the lube before he touches it to her slit, working it into her.

 

“Give us a minute,” he rumbles low, coating her lips. “Don’t wanna tear yah up, do we?”

 

He grits his teeth as he palms another cold glop onto the head of his cock, fisting it down his shaft.

 

He pushes her thighs wide apart, hand coated in lube slipping on her skin. She’s tight as a fist as he pushes in, and he grunts, voice full of gravel, “Gotta relax, Susan.”

 

She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “Can’t…”

 

He holds his breath as he sinks another couple inches, grimacing at the intensity of the friction. _Fuck._

 

He reaches under her, slots the crook of his elbows under her knees, and lifts her legs as high and wide as he can. He presses her hips up and back, feeling her grip loosening around him as he sinks in.

 

“That’s it,” he grunts when he bottoms out. He blows out a long breath; it tickles the ends of her fringe. _Bloody ‘ell._

 

 _She’d like to kill me, this one_.

 

“Come on,” she whines, eyes still screwed shut. She worries her lip between her teeth, grips his shoulders blindly and tugs.

 

“Don’t think so,” he rasps, managing to inject a smirk into it. “We’re gonna sit tight, you and me, til-”

 

His mobile rings again.

 

“Rick!”

 

“Alright!” he barks, drawing his hips back with a gentleness he doesn’t really feel. _God, she feels so fuckin’ good._

 

He pushes in again, just as easy. “Christ-”

 

“Faster!”

 

“In a fuckin’ minute, I said!” He gives her three more slow strokes, rolling his pelvis each time he bottoms out, until - _fuckin’ finally_ \- she relaxes.

 

He picks a quick, shallow pace, watching as her tits start to bounce in time with his thrusts, all the while his mobile rings like mad.

 

She digs the heels of her hands into his shoulders, nails biting his skin, gasping, “Rick”.

 

He smiles to himself, all teeth and no warmth. Just how he’d wanted to start his day.

 

When he’s sure she’s warmed up enough, he angles for her sweet spot, putting some power behind his thrusts. Her voice catches in her throat, mouth open and head tipping back against the pillow.

 

_Found it, mate. Just need to drive ‘er ‘ome, now._

 

“Uhn, God - Rick-”

 

“Right... here... darlin’- fuck…” He works his arms out from under her legs, lets her thighs drop on top of his, and braces himself with his hands by her waist.

 

“Come on, Susan… come for me…” _Come on come on come on_.

 

She’s covered her eyes with her hand, babbling to herself. “God don’t die”, “please don’t die”, “feels so good”, “love you love you love you”.

 

“In the ground,” she mewls, breath hitching as she sighs and gasps and sobs all at the same time. “Put you in the ground. All my love. My love my love-”

 

He shifts his weight onto one hand, lifts the other to peel her hand off her eyes and drape her arm about his neck. There’s a hard knot at the base of his throat, choking him, and a tensing in his low belly that means he’s not going to last ten more strokes.

 

“Look at me, Susan,” he calls, somewhere between a grunt and a growl. He’s rasping for breath, lungs burning. She’s squeezing the life right out of him. It’s ecstasy.

 

She does, lashes wet and nose pink and tear tracks all down her cheeks and fucking God almighty, if she’s not just the prettiest little thing he’s ever-

 

_Shit. Fuck. Focus._

 

“I’m right ‘ere. Feel that?” He snaps into her, head of his cock butting against her cervix. She makes a high-pitched sound in the back of her throat, nodding frantically. “I’m right ‘ere, fuckin’ your tight li’le cunt. You feel me fuckin’ yah, Susan?”

 

“Yes,” she sighs. He feels her clenching around him, close to coming. He grits his teeth.

 

_‘ang in there, lad._

 

“Good girl. You come for me?”

 

She sucks her tongue, touches his face. “Yes…”

 

He smirks. “Come on, then.”

 

He belts up, lets her concentrate, and tries to distract himself from the tightening in his balls as his orgasm tries to beat down the door. _Brendan Maher: 0-12. Padraic Maher: 0-6. Cathal Barret…_

 

She comes jerking and keening beneath him, nails scratching down his back.

 

_God bless._

 

He let’s himself go, not three more strokes left in him as he buries his nose in her neck and snarls into her hair, “Fuck me!” He holds himself inside her, deep as he can, as he blows his load.

 

She clings to him for dear life, stroking her hands over his head and his shoulders and down his sides. His heart is pounding in his ears and his lungs are on fire.

 

His phone is still ringing away, but he’s too Goddamn tired to do anything about it, and his legs won’t seem to work right-

 

The ringing stops.

 

 _Jaysus, bout time._ He lifts his head, searches her face. She’s panting hard - _she better be_ \- and her eyes are hooded, but they’re brighter, clearer, as they look back at him.

 

“Tom?” she whispers, touching her fingers to her cheek. Her lashes flutter as she holds her hand away from her face to see her tears. She hadn’t realized she was crying.

 

He butts her cheek with his nose. “Mornin’. Welcome back.”

 

Her fingertips are wet with her tears as she touches them to the corner of his lips. “I’m sorry.”

 

He laughs, a barking laugh that turns into a rasping cough. She flinches when some of his spital lands on her face. “Don’t be.”

 

She wipes the back of her hand across her nose, her cheek, grimacing. “What time is it?”

 

“Don’t ‘ave a fuckin’ clue, do I?” He manages to untangle his legs from hers and the duvet. He sits up, scrubs a hand over his face, snorting loudly.

 

She stretches beneath him, arms reaching out at her sides and shoulders scrunching up under her ears.

 

He cards his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “What’s today?”

 

“Tuesday, March fourteenth,” she yawns, rubbing the her eyes daintily.

 

 _One more, just to be sure._ “Where are yah?”

 

“Flat four-twelve, Bankhurst Road, South East London.” She gives him a self-conscious smile. “Apartment of one Detective Sergeant Tom Brant.”

 

He likes that, when she calls him by his title. When she calls him Brant.

 

“Very good.” He dips his head, catches her bottom lip between his.

 

There’s a loud _bang bang bang!_ on his door of his flat.

 

She startles, arm around his neck tightening and gripping his bicep in her other hand. She looks towards the nightstand.

 

For the gun her gave her, he realizes.

 

“Brant, Goddamnit!” Nash’s shrill voice, muffled through the door, drifts into the bedroom. “Are yah in there? Brant!”

 

He drops his head to her shoulder, groans. _You ‘ave got to be fuckin’ kidding me…_

 

“Who’s that?” Susan whispers, voice small and soft as she tries to peer around his bulk past the bedroom door.

 

“Nash.” _Wanker_.

 

“Nash?” Her brow furrows cutely as she tries to remember where she’s heard the name.

 

He squeezes her tit through her shirt.

 

_Maybe Nash’ll just sod off-_

 

She slaps his hand away, gasping, “ _Chief Inspector_ Nash? Holy pudding pops - Tom, does he know I’m here? Is that why _he’s_ here? To arrest me?”

 

_BANG BANG BANG!_

 

She pushes at his shoulders, wincing a little as it jostles her newly unbound one.

 

“Whoa - ‘old on, ‘old on.” He pins her down to the bed with a hand on her chest. “Hush now - _hush_ , I said - I’ll sort it.”

 

Staggering to his feet, he manages to pull on his briefs, do up his jeans, and swipe a tee shirt off the floor before he stomps across the living room.

 

“Brant!” Nash trills, “Brant, are yah-”

 

Tom throws the door open wide. It hits the wall beside him, rattling on its hinges, as he barks, “What!”

 

Nash tries to cover his flinch by flailing his arms at his sides like a mad chicken. “I have been calling yah and calling yah, Brant! It’s nearly nine, and I-” he stops abruptly, giving Tom a once-over. “What the hell have yah been doing?”

 

 _Ever the fuckin’ busybody_.

 

He lifts onto the balls of his feet as he squints over Tom’s shoulder, whispering furiously, “Tell me you are not late for work because you’re in there with some trollop, because I swear to- oh my God.”

 

“Jealous?” Tom sneers. “You know no one could replace you in my ‘eart.”

 

Nash is tensed, eyes flitting from Tom’s face to somewhere over his shoulder. “Brant, is that - is that the Romford witness? Is that Fairfax?”

 

“What?” _Oh shit._ Tom closes his eyes. _Forgot to shut the fuckin’ bedroom door._

 

He braces his hands high on the doorframe, large arms blocking Nash’s view of the bedroom. “Leave. Now.”

 

“Brant,” Nash puffs up, taking a step closer, “this is completely-”

 

Something in Tom snaps and he gives Nash an almighty shove.

 

Nash’s eyes go wide as tea saucers as he stumbles backwards three full steps, feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Gasping for breath, he doubles over and presses his hands into his diaphragm, realizing yes, indeed it has.

 

He eyes get even wider, eyebrows reaching for his hairline as Tom takes a threatening step into the hallway, fists clenched and lips pulled taut over his teeth.

 

“Steady on, old boy,” Nash holds out his hand, _Stop!_ “I wasn’t trying to go inside. S’not my business - don’t give a fuck, really - fuck, Brant. Think you cracked a rib…” He trails off in a weak laugh, rubbing his chest.

 

Tom swallows against the swelling urge to bash Nash’s head open against the wall.

 

_Easy, mate. Take it easy. S’Nash. Doesn’t mean ‘er any ‘arm._

 

He inhales deeply through his nose, ignoring the beating rage - _pummel pummel pummel_ \- and Nash’s terrified gulp as he grinds out through gritted teeth, “Wait there.”

 

He slams the door shut.

 

“Tom?” She’s pulled her exercise pants on, half-hiding behind the bedroom door as she peers across the flat.

 

“Didn’t I tell yah to wait?” he growls, consciously unclenching his fists at his sides.

 

She steps around the door, licking her lips nervously. “Did he see me?”

 

“Yes,” he snaps. “Yes he fuckin’ saw yah. Jaysus bloody - yah got your gun?”

 

It’s in her hand, cocked at-the-ready with one in the chamber. She isn’t shaking anymore, he realizes.

 

_This girl.._

 

He takes a deep breath. God, he just wants to hit something.

 

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Goddamnit, Susan.”

 

She’s inching towards him, eyes darting from him to the door and back.

 

“Is- is he here to arrest me?”

 

Tom laughs out-loud at that, hand shooting out to snatch her wrist and tug her the last couple feet to him. She stumbles into him with a soft, “Umph”.

 

“Girl like you, like to see ‘im try,” he growls, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck and tilting her head back. He kisses her hard, tongue stroking into her mouth and their teeth clicking together. She makes a sweet little noise for him, half-frustration half-pleading, hand twisting in his shirt like she can’t decide if she wants to drag him closer or shove him away.

 

He doesn’t give her a chance, wrapping his arms around her waist and gripping the swell of her ass, pulling her into him.

 

The hard drumming adrenaline starts to dull a little as he loses himself in how fucking soft she is.

 

“Goddamnit,” he rasps again when their lips pulls apart with a hot wet sound. What a fucking mess he’s in.

 

_Not even ‘alf-nine, is it?_

 

Her eyes close. “I’m so sorry, I-”

 

“Don’t be.” He tugs her hair, forcing a cocky smirk. “Go on and make me a toast, will yah? Gonna be late enough as it is without ‘avin’ to stop.”

 

“Yes,” she nods, giving him a small smile that’s about as genuine as his. “Yes, I will. Give me two shakes.”

 

He works on his boots, watching her putter as he crouches at the kitchen threshold to lace them. She slathers a healthy bit of butter onto each piece and seals them neatly in a paper towel.

 

“Ok!” she sings as he slips into his jacket. “Toast-to-go is ready!”

 

Her eyes are bright as he takes it, licking her lips to hide the wobble in them as she tells him a bit breathlessly, “Have a good one, ok?”

 

He leans down and tilts his chin. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek, hand stroking down his arm. “I really am sorry.”

 

He cups her cheek, stroking his thumb over her plump bottom lip.

 

 _I love you_ , he means to say. What he says is, “You need money?”

 

“Do I-” She blinks, faltering. “No-no I- I did the shopping yesterday.”

 

He nods. “Right. You need the pills-”

 

“I’m fine, Tom, really-”

 

“-they’re in the cupboard, where I showed you. Don’t go out if you take one.”

 

“I won’t,” she promises.

 

“Money’s on top of the fridge-”

 

“-in the cookie tin, yes, I know-”

 

“-if you decide to go out. And call me, if yah do. Or send one a’those-” He makes a vague gesture.

 

“Texts?” This time, her smile is real.

 

So’s his smirk as he snorts, “Yeah, sure. One a’them.”

 

She nods smartly. “Check and check. Watch your six out there, ok killer?” she adds, eyes softening a little.

 

He soaks that in a moment: her, worried for him.

 

“You lock that door behind me, understand?”

 

She nods again. “Got it.”

 

“Tom?”

 

He stops with his hand on the door handle. “What?”

 

“I-” She hesitates, wringing her hands lightly. “What time will you be home?”

 

_What time will you be home?_

 

His chest swells.

 

Home, she’d said.

 

His lips twitch to hide a grin as he grunts, “Late.”

 

The last thing he sees as he steps out is her standing in the kitchen, dimples out under the apples of her cheeks as she watches him leave.

 

She’ll fall in love with him, yet.

 

_Only a matter a’time, mate._

 

The thought makes his heart kick up a notch.

 

“I think it goes without saying you’re completely fucked,” Nash says as Tom shuts the door, standing at what he feels is a safe distance down the hall and using his best, _Don’t blame me when this all blows up in your face_ tone.

 

Tom smirks. “Wasn’t a doubt in my mind.”

 

“Did you find out what she was doing here, at least?” Nash asks as they start towards the lift.

 

Tom mashes the _Down_ button, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets as he watches the numbers above the lift doors light up one-by-one. “No.”

 

“No?”

 

His face scrunches in irritation as he continues to study the numbers. “How would I?”

 

Nash looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “By… talking to her,” he says slowly.

 

_Yeah, you try that with ‘er and see what it gets yah._

 

Tom shoots him a glance and a nasty smirk. “Kinda ‘ard for her to talk when my cock’s down ‘er throat, innit?”

 

Nash rolls his eyes, _Oh please_. “You’re not fooling me, yah know.”

 

Tom shrugs. “Who’s foolin’? She needed a place to stay while she sorts things, I gave ‘er one. Simple business arrangement.”

 

He flashes Nash another smile that’s all sharp teeth. “Was collectin’ the rent when you showed up.”

 

Nash snorts. “Poor las’d be better off takin’ ‘er chances on the streets.”

 

_Like hell he’d let her._

 

“She’s tougher than she looks, I’ll give ‘er that,” Tom says, a little more wryly than he intended.

 

“She’d have to be, to have survived your… attentions this long.”

 

An image of her, head thrown back and worrying her lip between her teeth with her hands over his on her tits as she rides him, flashes in his mind.

 

He smirks.

 

_Who’s survivin’ who, aye?_

 

“Hold on, is _that_ why you’ve been taking the tube?” Nash’s expression is a disbelieving one.

 

“Don’t like ‘er walkin’ alone at night,” Tom sniffs, trying to sound casual.

 

“Oh yeah.” Nash nods to himself as the lift bings. “You’re fucked, mate.”

 

“Don’t I know it,” Tom admits as they step in.

 

He can't help but grin to himself.

 

_Worse ways to go, I wager._

**Author's Note:**

> A Happy New Year to all my beautiful readers! I wanted to post something, and this little piece has been floating around half-finished for a hot minute. 
> 
> What better way to start the year than with a piece about beginnings?
> 
> Love, Pastel


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